Alexander Smith (Александр Смит)

* * *

I cannot deem why men toil so for Fame.
A porter is a porter though his load
Be the oceaned world, and although his road
Be down the ages. What is in a name?
Ah! 'tis our spirit's curse to strive and seek.
Although its heart is rich in pearls and ores,
The Sea complains upon a thousand shores;
Sea-like we moan for ever. We are weak.
We ever hunger for diviner stores.
I cannot say I have a thirsting deep
For human fame, nor is my spirit bowed
To be a mummy above ground to keep
For stare and handling of the vulgar crowd,
Defrauded of my natural rest and sleep.

1. There Have Been Vast Displays of Critic Wit
2. I Wrote a Name upon the River Sands
3. Last Night My Cheek Was Wetted with Warm Tears
4. Joy Like a Stream Flows Through the Christmas-Streets
5. Beauty Still Walketh on the Earth and Air

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